‘Well, he would be cagey, considering all the time he’s spent inside,’ Velvet Wilde quipped.
Ricky Sharp was a fourth-generation member of one of Brighton’s most notorious crime families. At one time the Sharps were major players in protection racketeering and controlled the drugs in a large number of Brighton’s clubs. But in recent years they’d lost out in turf wars to the Chinese and Albanian gangs, and Ricky, an ageing, recidivist drunk, had scarcely troubled the police radar in recent years. He owned a few grotty properties, some occasionally busted for housing low-rent brothels, some for housing illegal immigrants, and always feigning ignorance — and usually, through a cunning brief, getting away with it. The police also knew that Sharp made additional money as a relatively small-time fence.
‘So what did he have to say, Norman?’ Grace asked. ‘Anything helpful?’
‘Well, at first he told me to fuck off, that he wasn’t a grass. Then when I told him there might be some cash from police funds to pay for information, he got interested. Could we find something to bung him, chief?’
‘How much do you think would do it?’
‘I reckon five hundred.’
‘I’d have to run it by the ACC,’ Grace replied, relieved he no longer had to kowtow to Cassian Pewe, who would have taken some persuading to make any speculative payment on a cold case. Hopefully he’d have better luck with Pewe’s replacement, Hannah Robinson. ‘Anything else?’
‘Oh yes!’ Potting beamed, giving the impression this was the moment he had been waiting for. ‘The company that the Collision Investigation Unit took the Audi to, Harper Shaw, have come up with something that could be very helpful. It seems the numbnuts in that Audi were clearly unaware of the technology in the vehicle. One of these cretins had Bluetooth active on his phone.’
‘Or their phone, Norman,’ Wilde jumped in pointedly.
‘Indeed,’ Potting said, with a flash of irritation.
‘Which would confirm one of my long-held views, Norman,’ Grace said. ‘That the majority of villains are crafty but, fortunately for us, not particularly intelligent.’
‘I would agree with that, chief. The Audi’s onboard sucked all the numbers out of this person’s phone,’ he went on, looking pointedly at Wilde as he said it. ‘The phone itself wasn’t registered to any user, clearly a burner, and there were only thirteen numbers. I gave them to Aiden Gilbert at Digital Forensics, and he’s come back with three names he’s matched to the numbers.’ Potting glanced down at his notes. ‘The first, no surprise, is Ricky Sharp. The second is Jorma Mahlanen.’
‘The Slippery Finn?’ Branson said.
‘The very one,’ Potting confirmed.
‘Funny how his name pops up from time to time. He’s well rich,’ Branson added, ‘he could afford to collect art.’
‘Do we know how he’s made his money?’ Jack Alexander asked.
‘Not legitimately, from all I’ve heard about him,’ Polly Sweeney said. ‘Slippery is the right moniker.’
‘We’ve been looking at him for a long time,’ Luke Stanstead said. ‘Polly’s correct, he’s slippery all right. Every time we follow the money we hit a brick wall at the end of a blind alley. He’ll make a mistake one day.’
‘The third name is Stuart Piper,’ the DS said.
‘Stuart Piper?’ Grace said, frowning. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. Is he a person known to us?’
Potting shook his head. ‘Not to Sussex Police, chief, no. But I’ve discovered he’s on an Interpol watchlist. He lives in Sussex, near Horsham, and is apparently a major art collector — and dealer. He specializes in old masters — into which category the missing Fragonard falls. I understand he’s a very rich man, who has made his fortune by tracking down and trading in lost works of art of historical significance.’
Luke Stanstead raised a hand. ‘I’ve been doing a search on Piper at Norman’s request, sir. The only thing I’ve found on him in police files was back in 1979; he was the victim of a homophobic attack, in which he was badly beaten, leaving him permanently disfigured. Three people were subsequently arrested and convicted of causing grievous bodily harm and served time.’
Grace nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good research, Luke. Have you found anything else?’
Stanstead shook his head.
‘Great.’ Grace grimaced and thanked him. Turning to Potting, he asked, ‘Any ideas why he is of interest to Interpol?’
‘I’ve done my best to find out, chief, but haven’t yet got very far. I talked to a Ludwig Waldinger, who is still a friendly contact in Vienna. He’s getting back to me.’
‘Maybe you should go and have a chat with this Stuart Piper, Norman.’
‘I’ve already made contact, chief. It seems Piper has a second home in the Caribbean, on the island of Barbados, and he’s just gone out there. I could fly out to talk to him, chief, if you like?’
Grace dashed the hope in Potting’s voice. ‘I think maybe we can wait until he returns to England, Norman.’
‘It might not be for a couple of weeks, chief.’
Grace smiled. ‘Much though I’d love to send you off for a holiday in Barbados, courtesy of the British taxpayer, as Porteous has been dead for four years, I think we can afford to wait.’
Potting nodded and mumbled, ‘Just saying. Only a suggestion.’
‘I appreciate your altruism, Norman,’ Grace replied.
36
Sunday, 20 October
‘Here we go!’ said Harry Kipling, as he sat down beside Freya on the sofa in front of the television. Their best friends, Jim and Katie Morgan, were on the other sofa, turned round so they could watch, too. Even Tom had pulled up a chair and removed his headphones to watch. All of them held their topped-up glasses of Prosecco. They’d been alerted, only on Friday, by an assistant at the BBC that their episode of Antiques Roadshow was being broadcast much sooner than planned, due to a scheduling issue.
Jim, balding and two stones overweight, most of which he carried in his beer gut, on which he rested the base of his glass, had a substantial glazing business. His slightly built wife, Katie, was a care-home worker for children with learning difficulties. ‘Get that art expert’s whistle, Harry!’ he shouted out excitedly. ‘Was that your old man’s demob suit from the army?’
Katie put a finger to her lips and shushed him, her eyes going from the painting on the screen in front of her, to the one hanging on the lounge room wall to her right.
As Oliver Desouta pointed at the painting on the easel and began talking, Jim said, nodding at the picture on the living room wall, ‘Hope you’ve got it well insured, Harry?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Not yet, not until we know for sure if it’s an original.’
‘Then it would cost a fortune to insure,’ Freya said.
‘But millions of people are going to see this tonight, Harry,’ Jim continued. ‘Aren’t you worried about burglars?’
Harry shook his head. ‘I’ve arranged to fit security lights, window locks and perhaps a CCTV camera.’
‘They won’t keep out a determined thief, mate,’ Jim said.
Katie shushed him again. ‘Let’s watch!’
‘I wouldn’t keep it in the house, not after tonight.’
‘Jim, shut it! Let’s watch, OK?’
They all fell silent and watched.
37
Sunday, 20 October
There are decades where nothing happens, and there are weeks where decades happen.
That quote from Lenin, which Roy Grace had come across a couple of weeks back in The Week, had lodged in his mind. It was like one of those tunes that suddenly sticks and you can’t get rid of. Earworms. And it had sure been true of these past few weeks.